


(the one for you and me)

by letterfromathief



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 19:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5345672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromathief/pseuds/letterfromathief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And, most importantly, she’s praying to whatever gods there are that might hear her plea - even though they’ve never listened before, not when she needed them most - that this is not the time of the year that her soul mate decides to come out as a closeted Christmas nut and start blasting it in her head, where she won’t be able to find any escape. (Holiday Soulmates AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	(the one for you and me)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://swanisms.tumblr.com/post/134481131961/yourweeaboobs-yuekono-destiel-ismyotp)

They’ve been playing Jingle Bell Rock for a month straight at the precinct.

If Emma has to see that dancing Santa shake his nonexistent ass one more time - and offbeat, mind you - she’s going to scream, or worse, chuck it out a window and end up injuring some passerby and then end up in prison. Though at least, this time, it’ll be for a crime she actually committed; there’s some humor in that, right?

There’s no humor in how every time she walks into the corner bodega for some milk, eggs, and those candy strings Henry loves and she can’t resist buying for him, they’ve got the Christmas station playing full blast. She’s avoiding all department stores, shopping on Amazon for Christmas gifts because she is fully aware that hearing any remixes of “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” might cause a fit.

And, most importantly, she’s praying to whatever gods there are that might hear her plea - even though they’ve never listened before, not when she needed them most - that this is _not_ the time of the year that her soul mate decides to come out as a closeted Christmas nut and start blasting it in her head, where she won’t be able to find any escape.

Not that she _really_ thinks he or she is out there somewhere, just waiting to bump into her at the supermarket while humming Bob Dylan to the same tune as it’s playing in her head, but sometimes she has to fight the urge to serenade Henry with Stairway to Heaven, although that’s few and far between the times she gives into the urge to sing along to whatever Henry’s decided is his new musical obsession (lately Emma hasn’t been blaming you for being you, but you can’t blame her hating it.)

It’s hard competing with Henry’s musical stylings, but sometimes that person or, more likely, the latent lover of progressive rock and heavy metal in her makes an effort. She once started singing ‘In the Court of the Crimson King’ while making spaghetti and didn’t stop until Henry started singing ‘the Wheels on the Bus’ to counteract it, which was another problem altogether. She had to google that one afterwards, which led her through many articles arguing about the rise and fall of progressive rock and songs that she didn’t understand, but kind of, sort of enjoyed.

There was also the time that ‘Ace of Spades’ wouldn’t leave her head for an entire day. The line ‘ _Win some, lose some, it’s all the same to me_ ,’ actually came in handy when she lost three times trying to defeat Clayton in Kingdom Hearts (she’d had to watch Tarzan therapeutically afterwards and sang ‘You’ll Be in my Heart’ through tears that she wouldn’t admit were there.)

Henry’s good about the Christmas music, even though sometimes he can’t help it, but she doesn’t worry about him. It’s the other person inside her head that worries her, that leaves her tossing and turning at night, fingers tapping on the bed to whatever pop song she’s heard on the radio _just in case_.

The other person who -

She wakes up one morning, breathing a sigh of relief as the words that roll through her head are something painfully familiar, but _not_ Christmas music at least.

“ _You would not understand, this is not how I am, I have become comfortably numb_ ,” she sings quietly. Whoever this person is must have a decent singing voice because it’s on the beat, hits the right notes in her head, although she doesn’t.

“Is it them again?” Henry asks as she’s throwing together some eggs and bacon for breakfast. She’s running a little late, having spent a longer time in the shower singing ‘Another Brick in the Wall,’ so as to not embarrass herself in front of Henry before she got the singing under control.

“Hmm?” Emma asks, a little distracted.

“You’re humming and I’ve been singing Jingle Bells for the past two minutes to see if I could compete.”

Emma turns away. Who gives a shit if the eggs burn? This is way more concerning.

“Henry, you don’t compete with anyone. Not even the voice in my head,” she says firmly.

“But what if they’re really hot?” Henry asks.

“Kid,” she starts.

He’s obviously not a kid.

“Henry. They could be Brad Pitt and they wouldn’t compete,” Emma says.

“You don’t even think he’s that attractive,” Henry argues.

Arguing just to be arguing. Brat.

“Alright, they could be Orlando Bloom and they wouldn’t compete. Better?”

Henry hums Jingle Bells happily.

All Emma can hear is ‘Wish You Were Here.’

-

She’s so fucked.

Which is exactly why she’s risked this comic book store even though it’s decked out in Christmas lights and she can hear that damn electronica remix of ‘White Christmas’ already playing behind its closed doors. She promised Henry this comic, and lo and behold Amazon doesn’t have it.

So, here she is.

A day before Christmas and entering a store at its most frenzied.

She’s preparing herself for the ordeal, shaking out her hands and her head, taking deep breaths, the works, when someone clears their throat behind her.

“Sorry, lass, but you’re standing in front of the door,” the man says.

His accent has a lilt to it, something between Irish and British and whatever other country whose accent she doesn’t quite know the origin to except through her partnership with Graham and her run-ins with foreign cons and Hollywood movies.

She turns to look at him, taken aback for a moment by his dimpled grin and the Santa hat on his head. It shouldn’t bring out the color in his eyes, but the blue - dare she fucking say - _twinkles_ in the light. Like one of those Christmas lights she was glaring at only moments before.

And now she’s staring at his eyes, watching as one of his eyebrows quirks up.

 _Damn_.

“Sorry,” she says, and turns back around, throws open the door and stalks inside.

And she’s really not prepared for how bad this rendition of Frosty the Snowman would be, but she sucks it up and puts as much distance between her and the Santa-hatted stranger as possible as he follows her inside the store.

She’s half tempted to call Henry up and tell him to find something nice to sing, but he’ll hear the Christmas music in the background and _know_. Clever kid - correction: pre-teen - that he is, he’ll know she screwed up and tease her about last minute presents until next Christmas and beyond.

The store has an organization system worse than Graham’s at the precinct, so she searches through her brain’s music library for _anything_ , drawing an impressive blank.

The person in her head, however, does not, and in moments she’s soothing herself with ‘ _666, the number of the beast’_ even though nothing about that should be soothing. Humming it happily to herself, she looks along the shelves and finds the book, an ‘A-ha!’ moment that is amplified by the fact that the guitar solo happening in her head is _amplified, echoed_ , whatever you wanna call it when she turns the corner and finds the Santa-hatted stranger, now divested of said hat to reveal messy dark hair that hangs across his forehead in a way that would be attractive if he wasn’t now singing how “ _this can’t go on, I must inform the law.”_

“Can this still be real or just a crazy dream?” she says, not exactly at the same beat as him, but his matches the one in her head at least.

He stares at her, different than how he stared at her before, his eyebrows raising not in obvious interest, but sudden, painful realization.

Emma takes a step back because the song cut out as soon as he stopped singing and this _can’t be real, just a crazy dream_.

That she hasn’t had since Neal and Tallahassee and _Henry_ because who needs someone who sings stupid songs when you can have Henry’s smile and laughter and -

He’s staring at her still, eyes poring over her.

“If I had to guess, lass, you like Bob Dylan and Disney music,” he says. “And sometimes a bit of Britney Spears.”

“Uh,” Emma says.

This is exactly something she does not need, like ever, even though he’s now looking at her like the sun shines out of her ass - a visual that kicks her into gear.

“Actually, no,” she says, “But good try.”

She turns on her heel, making a break for the front counter, not too fast to attract attention, but she’s _already_ attracted his attention if his, “You’re a very poor liar, love,” is anything to go off of.

“I am not,” she finds herself arguing, turning on her heel to glare at him.

“Yes, you are, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re afraid,” he says.

“I am not,” she says again.

She sounds just as petulant as she feels, digging her heels into the ground, biting at the inside of her cheek to keep from sticking out her tongue, probably.

He raises an eyebrow. “Right. Which is why you won’t even talk to me.”

“I don’t have to talk to strangers in - where did your hat go?”

He perks up, drawing forward. “You liked it, did you?”

Shaking her head, she exclaims, “Okay, no, this isn’t happening. I have to buy this book and get home to my son.”

She expects him to draw back at that. It’s not great, having to use the ‘I have a son’ card, but it works. Usually. This guy, this - this _no, not him, not him_ \- this _person_ steps into her though, his look still eager.

“He likes She-Hulk, does he? So does my mate’s kid,” he says. “I read him whatever comics he wants - and that Robin approves of. Wouldn’t want to corrupt the little corrupter. He gets that from his mother, Marian, the smile that could melt a heart.”

He offers her a hand as she stares at him, gaping.

“I’m Killian Jones. What’s your name, _love_?”

It’s the way he lingers on the word that shakes her out of her stupor. Quickly, she opens her mouth to sing the first song that comes to mind.

“Am I more than you bargained for yet? I’ve been dying to tell you anything you wanna hear cuz that’s just who I am this week…”

They both trail off.

Emma much prefers the Michael Buble playing in the background than his hand reaching out to steady her and his confused smile.

“Never heard that one before,” he says.

“My son likes it,” Emma says weakly.

He nods. “Will you take my number? I know you have to get back home, but I’d really like it if you did.”

She doesn’t know how to argue with his simple request, not when his hand is so warm on hers and, in his twisted position, she can see the hat stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans. Festive enough to wear a Santa hat, but escape the Christmas music with some -

“Was that Iron Maiden?”

“Aye,” he confirms.

She smiles, takes a deep breath and says, “I looked it up from the last time.”

“Sorry for the music binging. Sometimes it helps when I’m working to play some albums on repeat. The Pink Floyd this week was probably uncalled for.”

“Appreciated, actually. Keeps the Christmas music at bay,” she says.

“Oh?”

He steps in a little closer, and if Emma tilts her head up, if he tilts down - well, there lips could touch, their cheeks could brush, their lips could touch. Here.

 _Fuck_.

“Let me have your phone. I’ll key it in,” he says.

“I’m Emma,” she says because in for a penny, in for a pound, in for this hell _maybe_.

His eyes twinkle again.

“Emma Swan.”

She hands him her phone and he could totally steal it as she turns around to head back to the counter, but she knows he won’t.

He does take advantage of her distraction while she’s paying to brush against her and slip her phone into her pocket. His mouth comes close to her ear, and she hears his words in her head before she hears him speak them.

“Come on baby light my fire,” he says.

“I will light you on fire,” Emma swears.

But she doesn’t mean it.

Not really.

Not until she leaves the store and hears ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside,’ playing in her head - and she’d totally storm into the store but he’s saved his number in her phone as ‘KJ, your music man,’ and she finds herself laughing instead as she climbs into her car.

-

“I was singing Jingle Bell Rock to try to get your attention,” Henry says. “It was them, wasn’t it?”

“He’s not competition,” Emma repeats.

Henry narrows his eyes at her. Clever freaking kid of hers. “He?” he asks. “You _met_ him? Deets!”

“I’m not giving you _deets_. Also, I’m forbidding you from adopting any of Ruby’s phrases. It’s weird.”

Henry rolls his eyes.

“Did he serenade you?” he asks.

“Do you really want to know?” Emma shoots back.

Henry considers this for a moment, “No.”

They’re quiet until Henry decides to revisit the conversation and says, “But when are you going out?”

“We’re…”

She doesn’t have an answer to that one, just Killian’s phone number and - now his voice in her head as he sings, “Call Me Maybe.”

“I have to make a call,” Emma says.

“Deets,” Henry says, but she can tell he isn’t serious as he turns to his book, humming some Dylan that Emma can’t really hear over, “ _I threw a wish in the well_.”

Viciously, she thinks, “ _Stop telephoning me, I’m busy._ ”

It’s so stupid, but when he picks up the phone on the second ring, she feels a little less stupid as the music fades out and he says, “Emma. What are you doing New Year’s Eve?”

Allowing Henry one small glass of Champagne at midnight while they watch the ball drop from the safety of their apartment, listening to the cheers in the streets as it drops down at Times Square.

“Spending it with my son,” she says, opting for the short answer.

“Would you two like to spend it with me?” he asks.

Emma raises a brow, says, “That’s a little presumptuous of you.”

“Not at my home. Somewhere public - well, semi-public. My friend, the one I was telling you about, he’s throwing his usual New Year’s Party, and it would be nice to have you there. With me.”

They’re not _with_ \- and it’s still presumptuous, and probably a mistake when it all comes down to it, because he might be the singing voice in her head but that doesn’t mean they’re destined to be, soul mates who never break up, never fight, never _leave_.

It doesn’t mean anything, really.

But this New Year’s Party doesn’t have to mean anything, either. Just a New Year’s out for once.

“Give me a moment,” she says.

She needs more than a moment, but she knows if she gives herself that, she’ll be ringing in his New Year’s with a most definite ‘No.’

“Henry,” she calls.

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to go to a New Year’s Party?”

“With him? Yeah, I need to check him out anyway.”

Emma rolls her eyes, a smile on her lips as she says into the phone, “Alright. Text me the address.”

“Wonderful,” Killian says.

She grins a little, the little hop in her stomach at his voice, at the happiness in it, the _hope_ \- it feels a little wonderful to her too.

-

Killian sings anything but Christmas music on the days leading up to New Year’s and Henry sings along to whatever’s on his iPod and so her head is like a radio station of the most confused DJ in history, and Emma - she loves it.

Loves it enough that she spends way too much time worrying about what to wear to the New Year’s Party, worrying too much about these people she’ll have to make small talk with and how Henry will feel being there and worrying about him.

Henry pokes her in the side right after she’s parked the car outside of the hall and says, “It’ll be great, and if it isn’t? We’ll make a run on the dessert table and slip out the back.”

“You’ve got all of this covered already. No need to worry at all,” Emma says.

She ruffles his hair and then runs her hands down it to straighten it out again.

It’s weird how, as she’s walking up to the door, she finds herself singing, _‘It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,_ ’ with no sort of irony and no wincing pain that she usually finds when the songs get stuck in her head.

It might be because the door swings open and Killian stands there, nodding his head to the beat of her voice.

“Emma,” he says.

She blushes at the look he gives her, at the way he takes her all in before Henry sighs and says, “I’ll leave you to it, I guess. Where’s the dessert table?”

Killian points him through the door, shaking his head slightly.

“I promise I didn’t teach him how to be a little shit. Kid learned that on his own,” Emma says, moving to Killian’s side as they both walk into the hall.

“Hmm. I highly doubt that he didn’t pick up a thing or two from you,” Killian says.

Emma smirks at that, because, yeah, he’s right about that.

Killian touches at her arm, and says, “So, are we going to bond over our very differing music tastes or should I perhaps get to know everything there is to know about you before the clock strikes 12 and I sweep you off your feet with a kiss that leaves you breathless.”

“Buddy,” Emma starts. She makes the mistake of looking at his lips. Swallowing hard, she says, “I need a drink.”

“Right.”

At some point, after she finds Henry again who has already introduced himself to ‘the little corrupter’ properly named Roland, reading comics with him and a girl around his age named Violet, who Emma is certain is going to be a problem for Henry, Killian leads her to a nearby table where he launches into a story that Emma only half-follows.

He’s trying to make her comfortable.

It works because she starts to ask questions and starts to answer a few herself and when he starts singing along to the music, she doesn’t mind the way it echoes, the way his voice reverberates off her head, making her skin tingle in a way.

She doesn’t even mind the way their voices blend together. It sounds kind of nice, actually.

But the clock approaches midnight far too fast and she’s preparing herself for ringing in the New Year with this _person_ \- _her music man_ \- when Killian touches at her elbow, turning her into him and says, “So about that midnight kiss…”

He taps at the side of his mouth, but he doesn’t need to because _you’ve already said it dude_ \- but it’s a cute motion, stupidly attractive, actually.

She’s a little tipsy but that doesn’t excuse the way she leans in and says, “Is that really what you want?”

“Well, I suppose I want much more than that, but I’m a patient man, Swan, and we’ve quite a bit of time on our hands. No need to rush.”

She stares at him dumbly, feeling a little nauseous at the implication.

It must show on her face because he shakes his head and says, “I worded that poorly. It would be stupid and probably pressuring to say that I’ve been in love with you since ‘Toxic,’ so what I mean to say is that I’m in this for the long haul.”

He stares at her, all sincerity and that hopefulness again in his eyes, and Mary Margaret singing, “Everything will be alright,” in her ears, like she’d sing it to David and Leo.

Like maybe Killian would sing it to her.

She ducks her head a bit, but doesn’t look away.

“I’m also here for a midnight kiss,” he adds with an increasingly wicked gleam in his eyes.

She looks away from him for a second, searching for Henry in the crowd. He has his gaze fixed on Roland, and Violet the same, as he places Henry’s headphones in his ears, a bright corrupting smile on his face.

Henry looks up for a second and waves at her. She can see him opening his mouth - and she knows the kid, he’s going to start singing Jingle Bell Rock, so she turns to Killian and says, “Sing me a song.”

Killian looks bewildered for a moment and then his raised brows fall back down, smiling as he sings, “She says she’s no good with words but I’m worse,” and Emma laughs, full-bellied laugh because he obviously looked them up - for her. For Henry.

It’s so _nice_. She can’t think of any other word to ascribe to the warmth in her stomach, in her cheeks, in her body when she leans up against him. She barely notices as they start the countdown.

10, 9, 8 -

He’s still singing, something she doesn’t recognize now.

6, 5, 4 -

And his words trail off, just a bit as he leans down to her height, and if she tilted her head up, their lips could touch -

3 -

Their cheeks could brush -

2 -

Their lips could touch -

She kisses him and the songs all fade out, the world fades out, awareness gone to the way his mouth slants over hers, to the taste of him, the hunger with which she grips at his jacket and he pulls at her waist, drawing them closer, swaying together as they kiss.

New Year’s is come and gone by the time they pull apart, foreheads resting against each other.

“I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus,” she sings softly.

Killian laughs.

“Your boy?”

“I didn’t teach him that,” Emma says.

“Yeah, I believe you, Swan,” he murmurs.

She looks at him. _Really_ looks at him and the flush in his cheeks, sure to be matched by her own, his eyebrows lifted in question.

“Happy New Year’s,” she says.

“Happy New Year’s,” he says.

“Now, we should get back at him, should we not?” Killian asks.

-

Henry ends up singing ‘We Will Rock You,’ to the elation of Roland _and_ Violet, so it isn’t really getting back at him, but it feels better, to watch him mouth the words across the room as she sings it into Killian’s shoulder, while they sway to their own beat.

 


End file.
